


And He Always Will

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drabble, F/M, death mention, levihan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a grave at the end of the lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Always Will

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short thing that I ended up writing kinda by accident and I thought I'd share it here to ruin everyone's day.

There is a grave at the end of the lane. 

It is indistinguishable, unmarked save for a cluster of lilies and a small patch of bare, deadened grass where feet will fall and knees will rest. 

No coffin hides beneath the soil - no lacquered wood or cushioned frame, and there is no body to occupy it. There should be aging bones and thread-bare clothes, the kind of gruesome, atrophied sights that people don’t like to think about once the burial is said and done but there is  _nothing_. Nothing but a pair of cracked, blood-stained goggles and crest that didn’t even belong to her. 

There are memories, too, interred in that grave. Of dark, desolate hallways and pressing silences, of soft, clumsy kisses and knocking teeth and there are memories of the motley of bruises, of welts and dents and scars that dip and bulge beneath his shaking fingers. There is an echo of her voice, of breathy sighs and of laughter, low and airy and teetering on the edge of something heavier, something that makes his chest ache and his face flush. 

There is the picture of paperwork, of long, scribbled words he doesn’t understand and of numbers and equations and sketches, of red, fatigue-bruised eyes and slender ink-stained fingers. 

And then there are the things he doesn’t want to remember - there are screams buried there, screams and cries and pleads, begs that he had never thought would pass her lips but even the bravest can lose face in death, and the rasp of his name ringing in the grave, hoarse and desperate and _imploring_ , is a painful reminder of that fact. 

These memories will remain underground, buried away with the goggles and the crest and they are raw and painful but without them she seems less, somehow - they make up for the body he cannot mourn, give her shape and presence and substance. It is soothing, in it’s own way, but it will never be enough. 

There is blood in the grave. Too much, more than any one body could hold and it is borne of  _guilt_. The same blood dyes his fingers red, dries in the cracks of his palms and the edges of his nails and no amount of washing will ever clean it away. It spills through the soil and stains his feet and he leaves the prints in his wake wherever he goes. 

And he always will. 

* * *

There is a grave at the end of the lane. 

It is indistinguishable; unmarked, and as the years go by the lilies wilt and wither and die away and the grass grows long, unruly and unkempt. 

Except there is one plot, one bed of barren, lifeless sod where bloodstained feet will always fall and knees will always rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...my bad?


End file.
